


From the Ash

by InkingAnonymous



Series: Renewal [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Hermione Granger, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Post-War, Series, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 09:48:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17916494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkingAnonymous/pseuds/InkingAnonymous
Summary: It's been almost 10 years since the events of "Just for One Night," and Hermione is a changed woman. Draco, however, is not so much changed as he is stuck, teetering on the precipice of redemption and unable to figure out why he feels like something is missing, something that could push him over that edge and into the light.





	From the Ash

**Author's Note:**

> As promised, Hermione and Draco's story will continue and come to a resolution. I will not be able to update too frequently due to my hectic schedule, but I wanted to get started on this journey. Tags may change, smut will surely ensue, but for now, here is a glimpse into Hermione and Draco's next chapter. Please let me know if you're interested in seeing their journey through to the end : ) Thanks so much to those of you that left feedback and kudos on "Just for One Night."

The steam from the shower billowed out of the glass door and followed her lithe body as if it were reluctant to untangle itself from its object of affection. The steam lost its battle, dissipating into the cooler air as the bathroom door opened into the bedroom.

Hermione Granger crossed through her room and opened the closet door. She studied her body in the mirror that hung from the door. As a girl, she had been thin and unmuscular, possessing a petite frame far more apt for sitting behind a desk than manhandling criminals. Her hair, once a toss of wild, frizzy, chestnut-colored curls, had now darkened to an espresso brown that, with a few minutes of time and spells, was easily styled into large, curling tendrils that fell to the middle of her back.

If anyone had told 15-year-old Hermione that she would one day love her hair, she would have rolled her eyes and scoffed. This woman of 26 who looked back at her from the mirror had undergone a distinct transformation since her school days. Hermione dropped her towel and glanced over her defined, softly muscular frame. She liked to look over the outward strength that had helped her develop her intense, inner confidence. She looked good and she felt strong. Time had helped Hermione grow into her true self and had helped her heal from those wounds that sometimes seemed as if they were inflicted a lifetime ago.

After the war, Hermione had felt trapped in her own mind. At school and during the war, it had been easy to manage her overthinking. While she never took her ability to think for granted, she needed to learn to manage the constant influx of thoughts. It was exhausting to never stop thinking, to never be able to quiet her mind. She poured herself into her studies. She poured herself into destroying Voldemort. For years, her mind had more than enough on which to focus.

But when that quietness of the after came, it was then that Hermione learned she had to find a focus for her energy or she’d find herself as a permanent resident of St. Mungo’s. Documentaries, articles, books—it all focused on the action of a war, on the battles, on the fight, and on the immediacy of honoring the lives lost for a cause. No one ever talked about the quiet that came after the fighting and after the funerals; after all the honoring of those lost lives, her friends, her dear, dear friends, her mind writhed in the agony of the quiet.

Going back to Hogwarts hadn’t been an option. The childish routine of school seemed behind her, a part of her previous life. And once Hermione had learned that many of the Slytherins, Draco Malfoy included, would be returning for their true 7th year, she followed her initial instinct and did not return.

Draco Malfoy. Hermione’s eyes shot to her arm with the thought of him. The very place that once housed the remnants of a scar, a crude and jagged M-U-D-B-L-O-O-D, now displayed a bold, beautiful phoenix. Getting her tattoo was one of the first steps Hermione took to heal. Even if she hadn’t dreamt about that scar during the night, every day when she woke up her thoughts returned to that moment at the Manor, the moment she felt the first pierce of Bellatrix’s knife, and the moment she saw the haunting look on Draco’s gaunt face before she shut her eyes tight and prayed to whatever god would listen.

The scar haunted her, and Hermione understood there to be two schools of thought about scars, much in thanks to her best friend and his very famous forehead. One could embrace the scar’s symbolism, let it serve as a reminder of the event that led to it and in that embrace, allow it to become a part of their identity, or some people could alter those scars, erase them and replace them with something else, something they chose.

Nothing made Hermione feel prouder or bolder than a phoenix, the very symbol of a spirit that cannot be broken. She chose the design carefully, working closely with the artist.

The phoenix was placed on Hermione’s forearm with its wings expanded as if in flight, its face turned to the side so its glowing, fierce eye was the first thing a person noticed. The tail feathers of the phoenix looped out, echoing the expanse of the bird’s wingspan, but were delicately drawn, tiny feathers looping and spreading and looping back again, forming what appeared to be an infinity symbol. Hermione hadn’t exactly described that bit but beamed when she saw the artist’s rendition. The colors were an expansive array of reds and golds. The artist used a special ink that made the colors shimmer, seemingly moving through the phoenix as if it were mirroring the blood that moved through Hermione’s veins.

When the artist first saw her scar, he realized just who he was tattooing. The famous Hermione Granger, member of the Golden Trio, war hero. He looked from her arm to her eyes, said nothing, but held her gaze until he was sure Hermione understood that he felt her pain, that he knew he would produce his finest work for her.

Hermione’s eyes filled with tears once she saw it complete, her scar gone, replaced by the brilliant phoenix. She hugged the artist, thanking him and in return, he thanked her for her sacrifice.

With her scar gone, Hermione began to search for a focus in earnest. She hired a tutor and finished her education, excelling in her N.E.W.T.s. She lived with her parents during this time, desperate to make up for the time lost during their obliviation. They had understood and were glad their daughter was safe, but tampering with someone’s mind is a serious offense. It took time to rebuild her relationship with them.

Meanwhile, Ron and Harry began and finished their Auror training in record time; they rounded up dark wizards from the war, and Harry made it a personal crusade to bring all of Voldemort’s followers to justice.

It occurred to Hermione, though, that she could do even better. She began training for Auror trials and at first, Ron had outright laughed at her, earning him a wandless stinging hex upside the ear.

Harry simply sat in silence, studying Hermione’s face and seeing the determination. He knew she wasn’t wrong; she would make an amazing Auror. So, she entered the academy and quickly realized that there was a reason Aurors were so fit, a reason that so many of them were Quidditch players in their schooldays.

So, she started running, building up from a twelve-minute mile to a solid six-minute mile. After that, she began to box, quickly falling in love with the adrenaline she felt while in the ring with her trainer. She gained strength and agility, and as she grew physically stronger, she realized that her mind was again focused, filled with the peace that comes with purpose.

While she never forgot about that little silver vial, tucked away, still in her scarf, she thought of the owner less and less, no longer letting his cowardice haunt her. Her new life also brought peace to the question that had once plagued her the most—what if she were to return those memories?  


If Draco Malfoy wanted to change, he would have to do it without Hermione Granger.

* * *

Hermione looked up from her paperwork and smiled when a handsome wizard in leather trousers and a light grey, long-sleeve shirt appeared in her office door, his denim jacket hanging over one arm.

“Ms. Granger, are you ready to accompany me far and away from this place of business?” he asked before flashing a grin that would put any cover model on Witch Weekly to shame.

Hermione smirked at his overly formal phrasing. He was clearly in a teasing mood.

“Depends. Exactly where do you wish me to accompany you?”

“I thought we could stop at The Black Dog, have a few drinks with the gang before we leave for the weekend.”

Hermione smiled and shook her head, eyes still on her paperwork. “You still aren’t telling me where we are going? How will I know what to pack?”

“I’ve already done it, love,” the wizard answered with a smirk.

Hermione finally looked up from her desk and quirked her brow.

“And when did you have time to do that considering I spent last night at your flat? And I know you were occupied for most of the evening.”

“Mmm. . . please remind me of what I was occupied with,” the handsome wizard said as he closed his eyes, smiling as if he were recalling a delightfully wicked memory.

“I’m being serious.”

He sighed, playfully rolling his eyes as he walked to Hermione’s desk and perched on the corner. He did not miss the way Hermione’s eyes flicked to his muscular thigh as he settled there.

“I expect nothing less. I took a long lunch, actually. Wasn’t it so nice of Potter to insist on taking you out today—absolutely no arguments?”

Hermione didn’t bother to contain her grin as she shook her head.

“I knew it. I knew Harry was in on it.”

The handsome wizard said nothing and simply shrugged his shoulders.

“Ashton Ogden. What am I going to do with you?”

“Ohhh,” he said slowly, his voice lowering. “Is that an invitation to make a list?”

Before Hermione could reply, her secretary knocked on the open door.

“Ms. Granger—this note just came for you.”

“Thanks, Midgie,” Hermione said as she took the piece of parchment. She scanned it and scribbled a quick note, Ashton watching her, smiling at her shift from flirtatious to professional. Hermione was the hardest working witch he had ever met.

“Anything important?”

“Yes. It’s an urgent MEMO from the Minister for all Aurors to start thoroughly investigating the backgrounds of our Hit Wizards. It seems as though they keep secrets and drive their girlfriends mad—it makes for dangerous situations.”

Ashton laughed and turned to grab Hermione’s jacket off the hook of her coat rack. She finished organizing her desk and placing her to-do list in the center so it was ready for Monday. She reached for her current case file and almost put it in her bag, but bit her lip before shaking her head no. Ashton watched, his eyes dancing as he watched her think. He loved the way her mind worked, mostly mysteriously, but once you had the pleasure of becoming an intimate friend of Hermione Granger, you could catch glimpses into those thoughts, triggers, if you will, that lead you to know just what she’s thinking.

As it turns out, she was thinking that this was her first weekend completely off in over a month. It could wait. She was in the midst of investigating a slight rise in the trafficking of dark magic antiquities, not a murder case. Sometimes, evil could wait to be vanquished. Especially if Ashton Ogden was the reason for waiting.

As Tiberius Ogden’s grandson and as the one-day heir to the Ogden Firewhiskey fortune, Hermione had known the name of Ashton Ogden before she put a face to it. And what a face it was. His complexion bordered on the edge of tan so he always looked as if he had spent the weekend basking in the sun. He had a cut jawline that made Hermione swoon a bit upon their first meeting. Now, she loved to run her tongue along the edge before capturing his lips in a kiss. His eyes were beautiful but tricky to claim any one color—they seemed to shift between a greyish-blue and a hazel-green depending on the lighting and what he was wearing. His brown hair was lighter than her own, cut in a fairly standard high and tight style with enough hair on top to create a look that seemed effortless and messy but that Hermione knew took more time than her own hairstyle to achieve.

Ashton turned 34 a few weeks ago and Hermione threw him a surprise birthday party. He had promised recompense, so now that payback was here.

But Hermione didn’t mind. Ashton was so much the opposite of her that it did her good. He could be infuriatingly relaxed about everything. He was like a lighthouse for her at times, a steady beacon of calm when she was lost at sea in her swirling thoughts or her obsession with her cases.

“I should check in with Harry, though,” Hermione mused aloud.

About three years ago, Ron decided he had enough of fighting madmen—he never quite possessed the tenaciousness of Hermione or Harry. Ron had had an easy enough life and a happy enough childhood to want to continue to believe that the world was solely good; he had confronted evil enough for one lifetime. He joined George at the joke shop and Hermione and Harry partnered up.

Hermione was so proud of the man Harry had grown to be. While he could still let his emotions get the best of him at times, he was steadier now, mature. Hermione knew that he would be Head Auror soon enough.

Hermione allowed Ashton to help her into her jacket, pausing to lean back against his solid chest. He wrapped his arms around her, kissing the top of her hair and breathing in her sweet scent.

“I can’t wait to spend the weekend with you, ‘Mione,” Ashton whispered as his breath tickled the shell of her ear.

Hermione hummed in response, smiling as Ashton kissed her temple.

* * *

The Black Dog was crowded with familiar faces. Hermione and Ashton were greeted warmly first as they made their way to a table full of their friends, then by their friends who were already well into their second round of drinks.

Hermione ordered a Fizzing-Gin and tonic and leaned into Ashton’s side. He put his arm around the back of her chair and she rested her hand on his thigh. She listened more than she spoke, enjoying the sweet cacophony of the pub and of her friends. As Ashton chuckled over a joke, Hermione turned her mouth toward his ear and asked again where Harry was. He wasn’t in his office when they had stopped by on their way out, and Ashton had only shrugged in response. Harry and Ashton were actually quite close; since Hermione and Harry shared a flat, they had gotten used to seeing one another outside of the office and became fast friends.

“He probably grabbed dinner and went back to work late because of the long lunch you forced him to take.”

Hermione laughed and squeezed Ashton’s thigh, “Rubbish! It was the other way ‘round and you know it.”

Hermione thanked the barmaid and picked up her drink, enjoying the tiny explosion of the gin’s bubbles that popped across her tongue.

“A toast,” Ashton declared to the table. “Here’s to love, friends, and living without regret!”

Hermione leaned forward into the mess of clinking glasses and tiny splashes of liquid. She took a drink and laughed along with the others, feeling truly secure and loved.

* * *

Draco threw his empty whiskey glass at the mirror. It hit with a thunk that crackled, the glass spidering. At first, only a few pieces fell onto the hardwood floor, comically slow, until a series of spidered cracks twined together and then the mirror finished its shatter, dispersing into innumerable pieces.

He was sick of staring at the grey eyes of his father, in anguish now because those grey eyes were everywhere, staring up at him from the shattered glass of the mirror on the floor.

Draco picked a piece of the glass off the floor and slashed his father from the old picture hanging above his shop’s fireplace. Framed Draco and Narcissa cowered into the bottom of the portrait while Lucius hid his face and ran away altogether.

Draco dropped the piece of glass. His hand was bleeding, and he watched his blood drip slowly onto the other pieces of shattered glass.

“You are not Lucius Malfoy,” said a deep voice from the doorway where a wizard was leaning, arms crossed in a gesture of casual authority. “The ministry cleared you, and now you have a chance to redeem the Malfoy name. You didn’t sully it; he did. And his father before him, I’m sure.”

“Every time any one looks at me, all they see is _him_.” Draco spoke to his bleeding hand, continuing to watch the bright red liquid ooze, then fall, dripping onto more pieces of the broken glass.

“Then stay here, locked away with your antiquities, afraid to actually do anything meaningful with your life. Stay here, safe from the world. A safe coward. Perhaps that’s your legacy?”

Draco’s lips curled into a snarl, but he did not move his eyes toward the man.

Harry Potter uncrossed his arms and pushed off from the doorway, moving toward the fireplace; his boots crunched over the glass until he stopped, standing in front of Draco, who continued to watch the slow drip of blood from his cut splatter onto the glass below.


End file.
